Open Sesame

A/N: You're in for a treat, loyal readers – special Canon Guest Star this week, Severus Snape!

More notes at the end of this chapter. Enjoy!

At the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac's Department, Oneironomist-in-training Amity Tweak had taken a cup of tea, by the grace of the head Omniamnist, T.R., at 1:15 p.m.

At 1:30, after she left the brief conference, she was heard to be coughing slightly.

At around 3:30, she suggested hoarsely to her coworker that she might leave work early.

At 3:45, she was seen feebly preparing to go, but hampered from another spasm of coughing.

At 4:05 she staggered out the door of the O&P Department, and collapsed.

At 4:17 she was in St. Mungo's, and was being attached to an artificial respirator because she could not breathe.

Time passed. The bell rang and the class filed out, not noticing the hunched figure who was a little behind the door. Linus gave a little shudder, thinking of all the horror a Death Eater could perform with a good Stone Cloak.

An impious corner of his mind whispered wasn't it a good thing that Snape was not an Obliviator… he hushed that voice and stood up to enter the classroom.

Snape was shuffling materials on his desk, from anatomical models of werewolves and giants to a set of Dark Detectors. He did not look up until the Sneakoscope was perfectly balanced on its tip.

"Do you have permission to be here?" he asked before Linus could speak. He glared at Linus coldly with black eyes.

Linus strode to the desk. "I need your help. I'm Linus Ollivander, yes I have permission to be here, and I need to consult another Obliviator about a peculiar phenomenon that's come up."

"Oh? Ollivander, aren't you a wanted criminal?"

"I'm under the care of the Order of the Phoenix, if you must know."

Coldly, "I did not need to know, and if you're half as clever as you think you are you won't go sharing it with everyone from whom you need a favor."

"I don't have time. Listen, you graduated here in 1978, right?"

"… yes."

"Do you recall ever knowing or ever hearing of a Benedicte Ollivander?"

Snape regarded him with some surprise. "No. The only Ollivanders I knew at this school were you, your sister and cousins."

"I had another sister. Her name was Benedicte. Now some people can't remember her at all, even though there's physical evidence of her. Even I can't remember her. Something is very seriously wrong."

"And what do you want me to do?"

For a second Linus hesitated and Snape looked into his eyes, bringing the memory of Linus' accusation of Snape – He's the only one with the training, and something of a motive… Cormac Prince… Philomel Ollivander—to the fore. Linus shook it off, but Snape's frown grew deeper.

"I – that's something I decided against." Linus spluttered.

Snape looked, not surprised, but exasperated. "I'm feeling less inclined to help you, sir. I've already got Harry Potter accusing me of every spilt potion in this school, I don't need more conspiracies dropped at my feet."

Linus dropped his gaze. "I will never accuse you of anything, sir, without reason. Forgive me."

"I will help you."

Linus looked up. "Pardon?"

"In the name of Benedicte Ollivander." Snape was looking idly at Linus, the way he might look at an apothecary, but his hands were gripping a raven quill pen with unusual tension and delicacy. "To remove a memory by force, and without cause, is a crime. Your sister – Benedicte? – must have been loved, otherwise no one would have ever recalled her, or noticed the lack, or wanted to fix it. No one has the right to remove love from someone else's life, whether in the form of a person or a memory. I'll help you."

As they had been talking, Turpentine, speeding north-north-east with his thestral, had checked the Taboo Locator Map and seen a spot in Scotland glow again. He flew even faster and swore nastily, the expletives dying on the wind behind him.

Calliope put the quill down. "I'm finished," she announced. "Would you like to proofread the letter?"

Mark turned the radio dial and shook his head. "No, you're an eloquent person, I think it'll be fine. Besides, it, ah, wouldn't be right for me to read all the flattering things you wrote about me."

"Mm-hmm." She smiled. "Scurry?" When the house-elf entered, she said, "Please post this letter to the Ministry of Magic – the Wizengamot." Scurry took the envelope and letter with a curtsy and left.

Calliope leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms. A familiar jingle caught her ear. "Wait – turn the dial back there. To the station with the music."

Mark obediently dialed back. A chipper voice in an Irish brogue said, "And we're going ta start off this half-hour with some strings for you all, here's the classic 'Full Moon Duet,' by Sonatina Bell and David Zither, followed by the new Rubaiyat hit, 'Song of the Black Fox.'"

Mark looked up at the young woman at the table. Her face lit up as the music started, and she started tapping her foot. On a whim he stood up, strode to the table, and extended his hand to her, the other tucked behind his back. "Care to dance?"

Calliope stared at him, then broke into a surprised laugh. "What?"

"C'mon. No one here to catch us." He grinned. His mind was racing. 'Maybe something will develop out of this. Maybe not. But maybe she'll smile. And I want this –'

She slipped her hand into his, and stood up.

The touch of his hand on her waist made her – alert, shy, emboldened. "I warn you, I've got two left feet."

"We'll work it out. Just – wait, you don't mean literally, right?" He glanced down at her house slippers.

She laughed. "Not literally," and rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah." Mark took a deep breath to steady himself for whatever came next. "Okay. Great. Just follow my lead. One-two-three-and—" he was stepping with the violins, and very glad that he was too busy to blush.

Just as the irreverent chorus of 'Full Moon Duet' was nearing its peak, Scurry hastened into the room. She stared in some surprise at Miss Calliope capering so, with only the barest regard for the existence of such objects as furniture, and had to actually raise her voice to get their attention. Once the two had stopped dancing, Calliope lowered the volume on the radio and asked "Scurry, what is it?

Scurry curtsied to both of them. "Miss," she said anxiously, "Someone is coming. How often we've said that lately!"

"Is it Linus?" Calliope asked.

"No, it's not. It's flying, we think, coming very fast – we don't have a good feeling about it…"

Calliope looked at Mark. His worst fears about Linus seemed to be confirmed, but he said nothing. She turned back to the house-elf. "Where are they coming from?"

"From where do they come? Sorry, not thinking…" Mark shrank a bit.

"From the South, Miss."

Calliope inhaled. "Okay. Mark, you will hide until we know who this person is."

He swallowed, every chivalric instinct in him crying against it. "Okay. Where do you suggest?"

A pause. "Benny's room."

(Gaining closer and closer, the Death Eater whispered "Shit!")

"Calliope –" Mark stood up.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Go hide. Keep safe."

She hurried outside, and he, with much more trepidation, entered Benny's room.

The wardrobe was tall and cedar. On the door of it hung a blue and gold gown, still well preserved, but rather stiff.

Mark stepped inside, thinking 'There's got to be an enchanted sword in this house, at least, something I can use…' He did not shut the door completely.

Calliope was out in front of the house, scanning the sky. "Scurry, take the back."

As the house-elf raced away, a cloud briefly covered the sun, making the steep roof of Hollywyck a near-black plane. Between the eaves a cloak moved, flapping in the wind. Its owner, broomstick in hand, carefully stepped out and knelt to inspect the house's guards. "I came just in time," Turpentine muttered.

He noticed the balcony below him. He approached it with great care, floating onto it – one hand on his broomstick, the other on the wall – and only when he was sure he would not be seen. He put the broomstick aside, took his wand out, and waited. He watched as the house-elf ran on the grass far below. He took aim.

"Stupefy."

There was a red flash and the house-elf fell to the ground. Satisfied, he pulled out of his cloak a Bag of Holding – small, leather, and incapable of being filled – and rapped the French windowpane with his wand. He door opened and he stepped into the Master Suite. For a second his eyes flit to every corner, then he spotted the bronze curtain and rope pulls. With a stride and glint in his eye, he pulled the rope.

The children in the painting all seemed the right age – he ignored their cries of "Who are you?" as he bent closer to read the plaque.

"Perfect," he whispered as he set his wand against the back of the frame.

"What are you –"

"Disincleft!"

The three subjects screamed as their oak frame was forced away from the wall. "Help! Help!"

"Silencio!" Turpentine barked. He tapped the frame and said another spell, usually employed to prevent trespassers or witnesses from wandering onto or off of a crime scene. The eldest girl in the painting, holding her brother's hand and clutching her baby sister, tried to throw herself against the edge of the painting, outside the painting, with no success. When he finished taking the picture down from the wall he took out the Bag of Holding and opened it wide, stuffing the painting inside. "This will be good," he said to himself. He cast around the room a minute more and then ran out, adrenaline coursing through him.

Once in the hallway, he pointed his wand out and said, "Ovros portos!" Three of the doors opened easily. (In the closet, Mark heard it and involuntarily crossed himself.) One stayed shut. Turpentine raced to that one and growled "Alohomora!" It clicked open and he looked inside.

This was the room. It hadn't been lived in for many, many years.

The wardrobe door was a little ajar, enough for Mark to watch helpless, as the tall, blotchily-complexioned man in an off-black cloak moved into the room with a jaguar-like hunch and a gleam in his eye. He looked all over the room and went up to the small figurines on the shelves, to touch them and consider them a moment before putting them down again.

Mark kept breathing deeply, trying to control his panic. 'I must stay calm. I must stay calm. I must keep watching this man.' The wardrobe seemed to grow tighter and more constricting. The thick jackets and stiff dresses were sucking the air out of the tiny space. Mark began to sweat and kept telling himself to breath deeply, but not too deeply – what if the man heard?

But the intruder seemed entirely intent on what he was doing. Now he was on the bed, going through the chest of carvings belonging to the dead girl.

He had nodded gleefully at the Rod of Asclepius set and, like a reverse Santa Claus, was closing up the box and putting it into a bag that was absurdly too small for it – 'What is he doing? What does he want from this stuff?'

Mark stood shock-still in the tight darkness, clutching the wool cloak with both hands.

Turpentine next spotted a book on the bed, entitled 'The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga.' He checked the Ex Libris page to ensure that this, too, had belonged to the subject. "That gives me an idea," he muttered, then said, wand out, "Accio journal!"

Nothing came to him. He tried again, but no diary, log, or notebook surrendered itself. "I wonder if clothes would work…"

He eyed the wardrobe but did not step towards it yet. Instead he perused the bookshelf, seeing which volumes had Benedicte's name written inside and tucking them into his never-empty bag. On his fingers he counted what he had. "One, the painting – the carved menagerie probably counts for two – four, five, six, I need more clothes, it'll probably work, and – photographs?" He checked the pictures hanging on the wall. In many of them, a prominent figure was stilled unnaturally. "Ah! I see I had a success there, at least. I'll take those for research…"

(Mark's heartbeat made his very sight tremble.)

"…Wonder why the painting didn't – hm – no time to dally." He strode to the wardrobe, hand outstretched…

First he took the gown off of the door, and tucked it with surprising gentleness into his bag…

"Scurry!"

Calliope had spotted the faded red curtain on the grass and rushed to the house-elf. A moment's inspection alleviated the worst of her fears – she turned Scurry's tiny form over, took out her wand and put it to the temple next to the closed eyes. "Ennervate!" she intoned.

At once Scurry's green eyes fluttered open. "Inside!" she shrieked.

"Scurry, don't agitate yourself –"

"Miss, he's inside! With the Muggle sir!"

The wardrobe door opened.

Mark was pressed against the back of the wardrobe, his eyes wide and taking in every detail of the intruder that he could – such as the familiar insignia at the clasp of his cloak.

Then he realized that the wizard was just as surprised as he was. But as Mark was preparing for a full-body tackle, the intruder merely had to pull out his wand and shout "Mobiliarcorpus!"

Mark felt himself thrust into the air, right-side up but powerless to control his direction. His legs flailed under him as the wizard sent him through the doors of the wardrobe and against the wall with a thud, and kept him there, at his eye level. The wizard stepped closer to him, squinting. "Are you – yes, it is! Mark Emory Printzen, wanted Muggle for crimes against wizardry. Well, this is my lucky day. I should have known you'd be here…" He stepped closer. "I admit myself very curious about you. Just what is going on in that little mind of yours?' Now he was almost nose-to-nose with Mark, and his wand was pressing on a vein in Mark's neck. "Let's see. Legilimens."

Mark gasped. In his mind's eye he was crying at his grandmother's funeral again, at his grandfather's, at the funeral of a young student of his. He was having bitter arguments that would never be resolved, being laughed at, humiliating himself. He was in the Sycorax, taunted by the guards. He was in the courtroom, laughed at, hearing the word 'Guilty' pronounced, and hearing it applauded. He was surrounded by invisible Dementors, he was looking at Calliope's face as she forced herself to be stoic…

"Hmm," said the wizard.

Mark felt a shift as the Death Eater began to wade through his memories of Calliope – all of her moods, all of the ways she had looked at him, all of her.

"Ha!"

The Death Eater tossed his head away, keeping his wand at Mark's throat. Mark blinked and coughed, the images of Calliope draining from his sight. His fists were clenched in rage. "You saw all that…" he muttered.

"Yes, I saw all that," the Death Eater turned back to him. He was smiling, and his eyes were glinting. "You sad, deluded dog. As if she would ever –"

Two things happened at once: Mark spat in the wizard's face and Calliope skid into the room, wand out, face livid. "Expelliarmus!"

Mark fell to the floor and the Death Eater's wand flew out of his hand, smacking the wall above the doorway. Mark scampered up to grab the intruder's hands behind his back. The Death Eater, looking around him, declared "Stop! I'm an M.L.E. official, and I know you are holding at least one outlaw – probably two. Short of killing me, there's nothing you can do to keep me from calling the M.L.E. here and shipping you all to Azkaban for Presumption and providing asylum to criminals."

"Who are you?" Calliope approached him, wand at his neck, her eyes level with his. "What are you trying to –"

"Leglimens!" The man muttered, looking Calliope in the eye. She gave a little cry and stumbled backwards – for an instant she wasn't in that room, in front of an unknown assailant: she was in a memory, cold, having stayed out too long on a snowy night and lost her way –

Mark, confused but still clamping the man's arms, yelled, "Calliope!"

As she straightened up, the Death Eater jerked forward, trying to wrest his arms from Mark's grip.

"He's doing it!" Mark spluttered. Calliope looked at him. "He was taking –"

"Silence!" with a shove, the Death Eater freed himself. He seized his wand and jerked it, flinging Mark against the wall. Calliope winced.

"Callie, the memories –"

"Silencio!"

Calliope looked quickly around, never relaxing her wand hand. The wardrobe was open – the chest at the foot of the bed was open and things were missing – she looked at the Death Eater again and recognized the cloak: an off-black cloak with a matching capelet, a clasp at the neck of a black and a white crescent moon facing away from a star – and she knew what he was, and what his mission was.

But what to do?

Mark twisted against the spells and the Death Eater, lost in his own gloating, turned to her to say, "I think I'll give you a choice –"

"No," she said, her silver eyes wide as she leveled her wand at his throat, not daring to look into his eyes again, "You're going to let him go."

The tone in her voice made Mark stop moving, and made the Death Eater stop smirking. "And why will I do that?"

"Because I remember Benedicte Ollivander."

Mark fell from the wall. The Death Eater gasped, "Impossible!"

"So a communal modification of memory, is what you're saying."

"Yes."

"An erasure of one person."

"Yes, exactly."

"And you suspect Death Eater involvement?"

"… Yes."

Not once during this interview had Snape put away any of the papers which he was grading. Linus despised him for it. "Well, you come to me as if this had never been attempted before."

"Well, never in my experience, no, and I can't do this alone. I can't mosey back to my office and ask their advice. Do you think that this could be a Death Eater activity?"

"That, Mr. Ollivander, is an extraordinarily dangerous sentence." Snape put his quill down, and put his fingertips together. "But yes, I think this is something they might attempt."

"Okay. Good. I'd like a fresh input on some other questions I have, if you don't mind."

"I only have so much time for you to waste. Be brief."

"You, Professor Burbage, McGonagall, Slughorn, Flitwick, and Hagrid, along with Scurry the house-elf and myself, have no memory of Benedicte, despite having opportunity to know her. Dora Tonks, Calliope, my sister, and… that's all that I've quizzed so far… retain memory that she existed, despite – oh. Wait." Linus sat back in his chair. "I think I'm getting the answer by myself."

"Always glad to be of service." Snape resumed grading papers.

"Those who only ever heard of Benedicte, but never met her, have memories – the key is having what, what you might call primary source memories. Conscious, recountable memories of some interaction with her – which Calliope wouldn't have because she was just a baby then."

"A single conscious memory opens the floodgates," Snape added, "which is why you don't even remember hearing stories about her."

"Yes – yes exactly!"

"Good. Now, is your second question one you really cannot find the answer to, or shall you address the wall?"

"Do you think it likely that my uncle's disappearance is linked to this – communal erasure?"

"Yes," Snape answered simply. "Is that all?"

"Um… yes."

"Good day to you, then."

"Benedicte Ollivander was born October 31st, 1956, by Caesarean section, to Philomel Ollivander and Modeste Samara. She was in Gryffindor House, her first display of magic was to make a bubble of air in a rainstorm, a week before her seventh birthday. Her wand was cypress and unicorn hair, and her favorite play was –"

"Stop! You can't know all this!"

"But I do. Funny, isn't it?"

"You were too young! You have no –"

"I'm twenty-seven years old," Calliope stated. "I was six when she died, I remember her tying up my scarf for me when I was going to play in the snow." She steeled her mind against him, thinking, 'You don't grow up with an Obliviator for a brother without picking up a few tricks…'

Turpentine's face had blanched, and his thoughts were visibly ticking. As he looked from the swiftly recovering man to the immovable lady, he hissed "This doesn't change anything!"

"Oh yes, it does," Calliope said, surprised at what she was saying, "I'm giving you a choice. Him as a hostage – or me."

"Callie, no!" Mark, back on his feet, had started to move to her involuntarily, but another flick – now more a stab – from Turpentine's wand slammed him against the wall again.

"It's ridiculous!" Turpentine gave a short laugh, but there was panic behind it. "I'll just take you both – "

"You won't." Calliope, without even looking, pointed her wand at the scarlet curtain above the bed. With a rattle and the susurrus of silk being drawn across the air it had them cradled in a half-circle. Calliope tensed her hand on her wand and pointed it at the window, which opened. (Chapter 4 of Elemental Magic in Dueling and Defense was about to prove its worth)

The Death Eater tensed as Mark straightened back up. "You can't overpower me," he said loudly.

"Oh, but we can." Calliope glanced at Mark; their eyes locked, he nodded and they both focused on the Death Eater again. "And even now –"

Scurry tumbled onto the grass and peat about a third of the way between Hogwarts and Hollywyck. Miss Calliope had almost kept her from going, but Scurry was well enough, Scurry insisted on getting help. This – stop – was just a fluke. She was disoriented. She'd been Stunned! She reflected that she had never been Stunned before in her life as she stared up in the sky, feeling like she was spinning on the ground. A moment to rest, that's all.

"Hollywyck is under attack."

She sat, then stood back up and resolutely vanished again, to reappear…

"Even now help is on its way, for us. You are trapped."

At that word, Mark sprang and tackled the Death Eater from behind. Calliope then leapt forward, prepared to bind him, the curtain sailing in unison behind her, but he moved too fast: one minute he was clambering with Mark, then he fell and landed on his wand. He shouted "Expelliarmus!", sending Mark reeling back and flinging Calliope's wand out of her hand. The Death Eater then grabbed his wand, stumbled out the door and down the hall.

As they started after him, Calliope taking the plum wand in her hand, Mark took her wrist and asked, "You didn't really mean that? Offering yourself as a hostage?" She didn't answer, but tugged him down the stairwell.

Turpentine tripped on the rug, stumbled into the conservatory, tried one door but found it locked, and found that his adrenalin was wearing off fast. A growing sense of malaise plagued him. 'Must be a Thieves' Curse,' He thought, and became anxious at once to get home and research a countercurse. Another door to the outside: locked. It took a third door for him to remember the Alohomora spell. Hollywyck was taking its revenge.

When he was outside, blinking in the sunlight, turning around to anticipate his pursuers, his situation became clear to him: the Memory Charm had clearly failed. He had in his hand objects to help him with a second attempt, but the woman in the house had actual memories, infinitely more valuable. There was at least one wanted prisoner in the house and almost certainly two. The woman was a witch, the man was a Muggle.

Scientist and Politician battled between his ears. "I've got to think," he growled just as the woman and the Muggle burst out of he house. She had her wand out, he was poised for a fight. In a second the choice was clear to him.

He turned his full gaze on the Muggle. As he flicked his wand threateningly, he cold see her moving to attack him. At once he spat a "Petrificus Totalus!" at the Muggle, who fell to the ground, paralyzed, and then an "Expelliarmus!" at the witch. Her wand was capsized out of her hand and landed near the prone form on the ground.

Turpentine gave one last look to the Muggle, then leveled his wand at her as she was hurrying to the man's side. "Stupefy!" She collapsed.

The Death Eater strode towards her and crouched by the prone Muggle's side. His eyes, the only part of him that could express anything, were wide and switching constantly between her and him.

"And now to take care of you," Turpentine said, raising his wand in the so-familiar gesture: "Obliv—"

Crack.

"Stop!" someone yelled, behind him, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps. Turpentine was squatting and was not as agile as he once was: he toppled slightly backwards to get a good look at this new threat, and gasped.

Ten paces away, Linus stopped dead in his tracks, his face disbelieving.

Turpentine said nothing except "Mobilarcorpus!" Then he whistled. Calliope, still unconscious, was levitated into the air. The Thestral, whinnying, flew down from the skies. Linus couldn't see it, but he felt the beat of its wings pushing him back, so he retreated to the walls of Hollywyck, for security.

Linus had pointed his wand at Mark and undone the Full Body Bind, to be thanked with a shrieked "Do something! He's getting away!"

But at this point, as Linus exclaimed, it was too late – he might hurt Calliope.

From his broom Turpentine glanced back, watching them get smaller and heard the Muggle's shouts become less and less distinct, and he accelerated until he was well beyond the holly fence, and only then did he start to feel better.

Farther south, farther south – dear God, what had he been thinking? He had just singlehandedly wrecked all of his careful plans and thrown a live hostage into the mix. There was only one word for that, and it was not a polite one, but Turpentine repeated it vociferously as he descended and landed back on MacNair's property.

He turned the thestral loose with a low whistle of three notes, as he had memorized. It tossed its mane – or what mane it had – and trotted away nonchalantly. There, that was one complication out of the way. With a sigh and a Puritan blush, he gripped the witch around her waist, focused on the entrance hall to his house, and spun on his heel.

"Do something! He's getting away!"

"What do you want me to do?" Linus replied, equally anguished. "I might hit her!"

Scurry had fallen to the ground, but she stood up again now. She cried aloud when she saw the departing figures of the intruder and Calliope and the thestral fly over the hedge. "Miss Calliope!" she screamed, trying to run after her. "Miss Calliope!" Her steps were tottering and she swayed from side to side. "Miss Calliope!"

Linus caught her and tried to hold her still. "Scurry, Scurry, please don't, you'll hurt yourself…"

"Master, oh Master, I couldn't stop him, I couldn't focus my magic, I want to try to –"

"No, no, Scurry. Don't hurt yourself, don't. I forbid you. There's nothing… there's nothing you can do."

Mark was standing in place, his eyes wide, looking after the rapidly disappearing dot in the sky until the hedges blocked it from sight entirely.

Linus, cradling Scurry in his arms like a child, stepped back into Hollywyck. He bumped his knee against a doorframe and his forehead collided with a shelf that had stood there for fifty years. He knelt by Scurry's cubby in the pantry and absent-mindedly Summoned a few dishtowels for extra cushioning. He tucked her in, to the best of his ability and urged her, "Get some rest, Scurry. Sleep all you want." He waited until her eyes were closed, then backed out of the pantry and turned around.

He took a deep breath, not seeing anything around him. He became vaguely aware of Mark storming through the kitchen door. When Mark grabbed Linus' arm and started dragging him outside, he started to slowly come back to. They were halfway towards the giant hedge when he resisted. "Where are you going?"

"Following them!" Mark yanked Linus' arm again so hard that he thought the Stone Cloak would be damaged. "Are you going to follow on foot?"

"I don't see you pulling out your magic carpet!"

"Stop it," Linus said coldly, pulling his arm free and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We have to think. Think."

Mark was glaring furiously at Linus. "I'll tell you what I think."

Linus met his gaze and glared right back.

"I think you know that bastard."

"No," Linus responded automatically.

"His cloak had the same insignia as the one you're wearing. And you–"

"No. No! I thought I recognized him but it. Is. Impossible."

"Impossible? Like magic carpets? Like wizards and witches? Like Calliope being kidnapped?"

"Shut up! Are you blaming me?"

"If you hadn't abandoned us to chase after memories this wouldn't have happened!"

"You –"

"And that bastard is the same one who was erasing Benedicte's memory!"

Linus stared blankly. "How do you know?"

"He was gathering things from Benedicte's room. I was watching. He took Calliope because she said she remembered Benedicte."

"Why would she say that? Why would she ever—" Mark's face fell. Linus narrowed his eyes. "Mark. Why did she claim that?"

He took a strangled breath. "Because he was holding me captive. He was going to take me away, but Calliope said to take her – in – my – stead…"

Linus clenched his fists. "What?"

"I didn't ask her to! I didn't want her to! But that's what she said, she lied so he would let me go!"

"Then it's your fault."

"No! It's your fault, you left us when we needed you!"

A bitterly cold wind blew, causing both men to shiver. Linus looked south, having come to some realization. "What are we doing? He knows where we are. He'll tell the Ministry at once. We've got to get out of here. Now."

"And follow…"

"No, not follow. Not yet." Linus looked around, frowning. "We can't be seen in Hogsmeade… can't go back… Come on." Linus grabbed Mark's arm and together they marched back into Hollywyck, and towards the fireplace.

Mark fell out of the green flames and hit his cheek against the bare wood floor in front of Hector's fireplace.

"You okay?" A hand was held out before him; he clasped it – Linus' hand, firm and sure, but his arm shuddered as he helped Mark to his feet. They looked around.

"Is he home?" Mark asked. "Should be," Linus answered. "Hector?" He called.

Mark looked around. The apartment was small and cramped, even with its meager furniture. On the wall there were two pictures: a charcoal sketch of a family (a woman with dark hair, a boy and girl on either side) and an animated photograph of a blond man who looked a lot like Hector. The man in the photo frequently turned to regard the family next to him with pride and affection.

A tussle of footsteps: Hector ran into the sitting room, wand out. "Who –" he stopped and stared. "You again?"

"Emergency, Hector," Linus said. "Calliope's been kidnapped. Right now, I need your help."

"What – what're you going to do?"

"We're going to rescue her!" Mark said, impatient.

Linus gave a long-suffering sigh. "There's no 'we.'"

Mark looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You're not coming."

It was evening, in one of the nicest rooms of the Three Broomsticks, February 10th, 1972. The lamps gave soft yellow and pink lights to the scene. A merry little banquet was commencing. Philomel Ollivander and her new baby sat at the head of the table, with Benedicte on her right hand side. The entire Ollivander family was there: Servaas sat next to his brother, Andries, who sat beside his wife, Calliope Ollivander née Crouch. Young Linus, next to his father, sat next to an even younger Tess, beside her mother. Barty Crouch, too, was there, sitting awkwardly next to Professor McGonagall, who was chaperoning the Hogwarts students, but taking a glass of sherry in Philomel's honor.

Philomel tapped her glass for silence. She could not stand up easily, but every head in the room turned to her. "We come here," she said, "not only to celebrate and present our newest daughter, but to name her godmother." With great formality, she turned to her other daughter. "Benedicte Clemence Ollivander, do you accept the responsibility of being godmother to your sister?"

Benedicte, with matched reverence, stood up and bowed to her mother, assenting softly. Philomel reached into the bassinet beside her and lifted up the baby, swamped in white eyelet. She held her out to Benedicte, who took the infant in her arms and said, "Calliope Blithe Ollivander, I will be your godmother."

The grandmother gasped a little and her eyes lit up: she did not know that she was to have a namesake.

"I gladly take this privilege out of love, out of duty, and out of gratitude," Benny glanced at her mother, "for the safe delivery of you both." She looked down at little Calliope again. The baby's blue eyes were open and she bat her hand against Benedicte's dress. "For as long as I live," Benedicte said evenly, "I promise I'll protect you and be there for you. No matter what."

As the assembled party clapped for them, and Hector Gibbs (Tess' father) raised a toast. Benedicte rubbed her thumb on little Calliope's forehead, and then kissed the dark head.

Although I realize it's a bit late, I'm adding a pronunciation guide for character names, at least the ones that are probably tougher.

Calliope: ca-LIE-oh-pee

Tisiphone: ti-SI-pho-nee

Servaas: SER-vas

Printzen: It would come off sounding like Princeton, but with the 'z' and 't' sounds merged.

Benedicte: be-ne-DEECT

Any other names you're curious about? Let me know.

Lastly, a delayed thank you to Notmyrealname. Your review was so kind and gratifying, it seriously made my week. Thank you! And if you think it needs more reviews, well, I agree – recommend it to people, is my suggestion. And don't be afraid to comment on the latest chapter, either. :)

Thank you all for reading! Honestly, next week I probably will not be updating (Paris, here I come) - but stay tuned for the week after THAT, when plots shall be foiled, secrets revealed, and tangled webs woven in the exciting conclusion of... The Ollivander Children!